A Mystery at the Opera
by Painted Avocado
Summary: In 1881, when John Watson accepted a job at Baker Street's Opera, he did not intend to chase after a brilliant madman who is as mysterious as much as he ravels in intrigue. That was until a series of gruesome murders started to plague the theatre...


_In 1881, when John Watson accepted a job at Baker Street's Opera, he did not intend to chase after a brilliant madman who is as mysterious as much as he ravels in it._

_That was until a series of gruesome murders started to plague the theatre and a rather interesting agreement was sealed. Now he intends to spare as many lives as possible in this twisted game of cat and mouse. Of course he must figure out who the payers are and where do they stand, all while unveiling his companion's past and trying to maintain a steady income._

_Oh, did he mention that he is not gay? Because he is certainly not pinning for this lunatic._

_A Phantom of the Opera and Sherlock fusion._

* * *

In the year of 1881, life is not kind to the recently discharged Captain John H. Watson, Assistant Surgeon of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Just a few moths prior, a Jezail bullet lodged itself in his shoulder, ending his army career and setting an irreparable fire in his shoulder, a tremor in his dominant hand accompanied by a limp in his leg. His pension considerably dwindled down after a few ill-conceived gambling sessions, and his sister started showing signs of the Watson drinking frenzy. Not that these are yet remarkable: a lady cannot freely acquire monstrous quantities of liquor without setting ablaze the gossiping chain of command. This fact pleases John, it protects his older sister from a life of vice. Too bad this protection does not also extend to him: the liquor these days, lures him more than what he cares to admit.

No, 1881 is definitely not John Watson's year, but it seems to be Harriet's who secured a role in Baker Street Opera's next grand show. Her small but nimble frame and her delicate features, make her a perfect ballerina. One surrounded by other equally beautiful dancers. Harry loved those, can't refrain from inconspicuously (her term, shamelessly, John's) flirting with most of them. While John agrees that she is awfully blasé about this whole affair. Not that there is anything wrong with this in her brother's eyes, it is _all fine_. The thing is that not many share this opinion.

But Harriet, Harry amongst family and very close friends, is happier than John has seen her in years. So much so that they are even rekindling their relationship after the whole army fiasco. There was shouting (both), aggression (Harry), tears (Harry, again) and the damage of a few valuable vases (Harry, once more). When John was shipped to Afghanistan, their relationship was damaged beyond repair, or so it seemed.

Now, John, as he stands in front of the looming Opera, in the early winter, waiting for his sister who wants to show off her Doctor little brother, he cannot help but to be happy. What had seemed as a lost cause not even ten years ago is blooming into the relationship he always wished he had never lost with Harriet. Only if she could talk faster so that they can let John into the rehearsals before his leg decides to turn to stone once more–

"Johnny!"

Give to Harry to call him like that even after becoming a man. He can grow a beard for God's sake! Wait… is that what she is introducing him as? _Johnny-boy_… A not so unfounded sense of dread sets upon the ex-soldier. Bullets can soar past him without even slightly startling, but his sister can always make him feel like a little kid all over again.

"Not even two minutes ago you were complaining about the cold, and now you refuse to come inside?" she says tugging him by the arm and handing him his cane.

"It wasn't two minutes. Fifteen more like it," he dangles his (previously hers) pocket-watch in front of her face in order to prove his point. "And please don't tell me you're introducing me as Johnny–"

"Quit your ranting and come inside before you freeze your arse off."

"Such the lady."

Her only response is to drag him into the Opera while sticking her tongue out. They are five years old all over again.

* * *

What a room indeed. The inside of the theater is enormous: three houses could fit in it, with room to spare. It might be dipped in gold for all John can tell, filled with a sea of velvet seats, one that expands on three levels. All of them are adorned with at least ten gold statues of beautiful, and mostly naked, people. Sometimes chains of cloth manage to cover their decency. Other times, they do not. The attention to detail is perfect. These statues interact with one another, speaking volumes of passion and whispering seducing word into others' ears. While their sinful behaviour is spied down from the heavens, or in this case, by the cherubs painted on the ceiling. To look up, is to admire the heavens and a crystal chandelier that might take the whole lower floor if it was grounded. While the most expensive seats ate carved in the ivory walls, each decorated with an equally exquisite relief. This place is magnificent, so much so that John could spend hours admiring every single detail, learning even its most hidden corners.

Front row seats as he watches his sister twirl and perform a wide range of acrobatics he never knew could even be done. Well, his attention is far from on his sister, but in a room full of ballerinas who can blame him?

Props, make-up artists and crewmen are also scattered about the stage, madly dashing about to achieve the best dress rehearsal they can manage. A tall lady, with a dress so many layers thick that reminds John of a pastry, rehearses her sonata, a crescendo resonating throughout the stage. Her voice, while possessing an extraordinaire range, may break glass, if there was any to spare. The way she carries herself, shrouded in a cloud of vanity, and radiating an airing of immense self-importance tells John that she is the leading lady of this show. A true diva.

The way she insults the crewmembers, reinforces his hypothesis.

The way in which these react, either scoffing or mocking her extravagant gestures, some blocking their ears, as well as for the seemingly permanent sneer that adorns her face, confirms it.

"And if you dare think I shall ever appear on-stage without that pearl necklace, you can very well bid farewell to tonight's show," her voice pierces the room as she, with visible effort, advances towards the kind-faced seamstress. "I won't be singing!"

Before the accused can even reply, the double doors burst open and three suit clad-figures, engrossed in a merry conversation waltz into the room.

"Mr. Brooke it is an honour to have such a generous benefactor invest in our Opera."

The man, Brooke, an impish fellow with too wide eyes and a perfectly tailored suit, probably worth John's entire life-savings, smiles secretively. Looking around the theater, as though expecting someone to appear, while not really listening to the varying ranges of praise from the two men at his sides.

"Of course, Wilkes," his voice is tinted with an Irish accent, and John cannot help but think, sounds _menacing_. "The Opera has been a life-long passion of mine, and after that dreadful affair with the fire all those years ago… Well, I would hate for this magnificent building to fall into decay once again."

"Please! Ladies and gentlemen, your attention!" The third man calls, raising his arms signalling for silence. "Thank you. Now, meet our newest contributor, Professor Richard Brooke. He will be investing in plays to come and – hey you, can you stop tinkering with the backgrounds? Just stop –"

A rustle of movement. A hint of black. The sound of ropes snapping.

A warning.

The heavy canvas fall on the lead singer and without a second John rushes to the stage. Of course, the prima donna is fine, utterly pissed, covered in dust and yelling her head off. But fine nonetheless.

As John and other crewmembers help remove the gigantic prop from her petite form, Wilkes marches off to scold the obstinate worker who let loose the canvas, indubitably. Except that once he get close enough to berate the accused from below, a heavy sand-filled bag barely misses the producer's face as the latter is knocked backwards through sheer surprise. This occurrence is followed by a robed figure plunging from where the lights are handled, using some of the loose ropes to slow down his fall, executing a perfect roll to evenly distribute the impact, and getting up its feet in no time.

The black form rushes past the crowd of awed workers, passing right past John, he shoves his smaller build to the ground. With the soprano up on her feet and dusting off the sugary dust from her cake-like dress, the soldier does not hesitate to pursue the threat. Unsheathing a blade from his cane, a gift from Bill Murray, he too pushes past the crowd and heads backstage.

* * *

The room is an enormous wooden maze of many dark corners, and contains at least five sets of stairs: two spiral ones all the way on the back, each leading to completely opposite sides of the room. On the left side, there are two more, one that disappears into the floor and one used by the crew to re-arrange the lighting and background changes. Finally, the one closest to John is shrouded by darkness and leads to the upper floors where the wood is creaking and traces of burnt walls can still be admired.

John looks around, but the shadows that reign over the piece do a magnificent job at cloaking his target. No contrast would he have: black against black. Actors fill the perimeter and wildly look around the room, blabbering excitedly amongst themselves and pointing at two completely opposite sides of the room. _"That way! That way! Towards the stage"_, but others disagree, _"Are you daft? He was headed towards the change rooms"_.

A door on the far right slams open, one he previously missed due the absorbing obscurity of the piece, and he dashes towards it before the figure has half a chance to close it. John uses his momentum to tackle the man to the ground, throwing his whole weight against the slimmer but taller form. The latter, not anticipating the doctor's resolve, falls flat on his stomach, but immediately rolls to the side, in an attempt to push the soldier off him. But John was in Afghanistan and firmly clings to the man, trying to pin him to the ground. The blade lays long forgotten on the floor. A fist flies past the doctor's defenses and connects with the side of his face. John's grip loosens and the other man uses this tactical advantage to throw the doctor's weight off him, scrambling for the exit. Except that John's shoulder isn't on fire and the pain on his leg is forgotten, thus he is on his feet not even two seconds after, reaching out for the other man's arm, twisting it behind his body. The assailant, who also appears to possess more than a basic knowledge in close-combat, kicks the doctor on the shin, twists around and attempts to connect his elbow with John's stomach, but before the blow even comes close, the doctor dodges it by stepping backwards and now has both of the man's hands disabled.

The attacker's face is half concealed by a pure white mask, composed features clashing against a wolfish grin, a picture of madness. Of genius. But it is the eyes that truly capture John's attention, two silver orbs tainted with hues of green and copper stare back at him. But not just any stare, it is intense: a butterfly pinned to a table, being taken apart, scrutinized and assed. All secrets leaping off the creature, submitting to this man's will. John is that butterfly, one who made the gross mistake of relaxing his grip, even if for a fraction of a second. The assailant, panting hard, beams and with an absurdly feline grace, one that should not even be possible, twists away from John, sending him to the floor and making him land with the most ungraceful _oomph_. By the time the doctor recovers, the man is long gone and a crowd has gathered in front of the door. Some look at him with amused eyes and others appraisingly, while the rest don a mix of both. He tries to make it out of the room, but is held inside by the mob of spectators, who,_ sure, let the madman go_, but don't extend that courtesy.

"Johnny! Get down here!" comes Harry's _this is all too funny, but my brother is still wicked awesome_ voice, as she waves an arm high above her head, beckoning for his approach. He complies, catching a glimpse of silver orbs on the upper floor, but before he can assess the situation, he is engulfed into a bear hug. "That was– Johnny, who knew you had that in you? Well, I did, you were in the army and all. But seeing you… wow. You still got your arse handed to you, though."

They are staring.

Great.

"John, or is it Johnny?" Brooke inquires with false-politeness and not-so hidden mockery. His eyes, two gleaming dark orbs scrutinize the doctor as he clears his throat. Except that his gaze doesn't awe John, it scares him. There is something about this man, something that reeks of malice.

_That_ smile, because the emphasis is completely necessary, never leaves his face.

"Doctor Watson, actually," comes John's uneasy reply. The man has not stopped smiling, his eyes are gleaming and that is just creepy.

"Doctor! Of course. Terribly swift for one who needs a cane," he hands John his blade, along with the scabbard. "Well, appearances can be deceiving, not really a cripple, are you?"

Normally John would comment on this insult, but the surprise at having chased after a possibly dangerous man sans cane permits him to ignore it. Well, not entirely. He glares his sharpest daggers at the fellow the entire time he reaches for the offered items and sheaths his blade.

"No, you're not," Brooke continues completely unfazed. "The way you hold that blade, the perfectly steady hand, and the swiftness with which you took chase points to the contrary. No doubt, you're used to it. In fact, you are rather talented at this. Proved by the fact that you held your ground against our elusive guest. He is rather secluded and your little scuffle will keep him at bay for a while longer. Not the kind of person to be chased after: he chases you. So don't expect him around in the next, _ah_, few days?"

"Excuse me, but what?" is what the somewhat dazed, really impressed and a little bit ticked off doctor answers. "You mean to say that whatever that was, is–"

"Happens often?" Brooke interrupts, looking to where John last saw the silver-eyed figure for the briefest of seconds. "Yes, or so I was told, a bit of mystery at the Opera, actually… what is it that you call him?"

"The Phantom?" offers the petite dancer standing next to Harry. "He does not really have a name, bit of a novelty this man, started roaming the premises as soon as the renovations were finished… truth to be told no one quite really knows who he is."

"A freak, I'd say," sneers one of the ballerinas.

Just as like any good mystery, this comment unleashes a chain-reaction of speculations. _He is no man, but a spirit I tell you,_ or, _He has never been seen outside, rumours assure that he is a vampire!_ Others stick to less fantasised anecdotes: an escaped prisoner, a homeless man or a survivor of the Great Fire of 1878.

"Come off it," this time the blond producer (or was it owner), Wilkes, snaps, calming the turmoil. "This Phantom creates nothing but bad publicity."

"Any publicity is a valuable publicity, Sebastian," interjects his partner. "You know the renovations dealt us a considerable financial coup and if the man attracts more customers: I don't care. I'm rather happy, actually."

"Well, I do if he continues to harass our cast!" hisses the other. "Our _bella _menaced to leave the production. The Phantom has to go!"

"Mm, perhaps, but in the meantime, our doctor has managed to guard him off," contemplates Brooke, holding two fingers to his chin. "Tell you what, our next production has some rather important fighting scenes, would you be interested in coordinating our dancers?"

Disappointed, after all John much rather prefers to hear about this "phantom", but he is being offered a job, and albeit this Brooke fellow manages to send shivers down his spine, he accepts the offer.

Nodding once, he extends his hand to Brooke, thus closing the deal.

* * *

The next production is _Carmen_, and with an actual soldier helping coordinate the action sequences, Brooke encourages the producers, Sebastian Wilkes, a toad-faced man, and Andy Galbraith, his too young partner, to place more emphasis in them. John does not complain, and truly becomes a terrific teacher. He demonstrates the right footing to land a blow, as well as the best course of action that will enable them to disarm an opponent in close combat. The actors learn quickly, and three days later, the play makes its grand opening.

He is sure that the play will take the opera house by storm.

He is right. The play, certainly draws attention, but not for the right reasons.

When the curtain closes on the third act, Don José goes missing for a while. When he comes back, John cannot help but notice a different air about him. But Harry drags him off before he can quite place his finger on what. Though, he does notice the new wardrobe selection, a mask that covers half of his face. When did the costume designer add that piece?

He wishes to have looked more in depth at the sudden change. In fact, he regrets not to. But Harry, as well as many other dancers, entraps him with showers of praise for his contributions to the play.

"John that was superb! I could have sworn they were actually fighting."

"I know, I was about to break them apart myself."

"Yeah right Clara, you looked so determined, _hiding _behind Harriet's skirts and all…"

"Oh come off it, Sally."

Which was true, the fight had looked very realistic, as John based his routine on the combat experience he acquired at the army. The audience gasped each time the two actors dodged or delivered a punch and awed when they carry on with their tenor.

Unfortunately, the pleasant backstage experience is pierced by a collective gasp emanating from the audience, followed by a cacophony of screams, definitely not part of the opera.

A running Don José rushes past the ex-army doctor, shoving the smaller man to the ground, and disappearing into the darkest corners of the room. However, John completely forgets about him, when Escamillo demands for his presence.

Begs actually. Rather desperately.

The sight that greets him is one of equal parts awful and heart clenching.

Carmen is sprawled in an ever-growing pool of her own blood, crimson violently clashing against the paleness of her skin. Her golden bodice, tainted with a blooming blood-rose, entraps her midsection in a dying tango as the singer tries desperately to draw breath. Escamillo and two other dancers hold her hands and cradle her head, all encompassed in a gruesome tableau of death. They all look at John miserably, who futilely attempts to save a dying woman– stomach stabled clean through. He instructs one of the ballerinas, to apply pressure, while urges the other to keep the victim conscious. Not that it actually matters, with the gastric acid eating slowly her alive, and deprived of his first aid-kit, the woman will die. Still, the doctor in him refuses to yield.

The audience is ushered outside and the mezzo-soprano dies shortly after.

When Scotland Yard come to the scene, John spots the silver-eyed man assessing the stage, perched in one of the boxes, nearest to the scene. A mask covers half of his face and his hands are clasped together, index fingers brushing his prominent cupid's-bow, in deep concentration. A raven drawn by death.

This time, he does not chase after him, but accepts his sister's hand as she quietly leads them both to the dressing rooms. An abnormally solemn aura reigns over the chambers, as a half-empty bottle of fiery amber gets passed around.

"Johnny, you did your best," his sister begins quietly, looking wide-eyed and not sure how to react.

Because he is doctor, one who has seen hell and come back, he is already aware of this fact.

Because he is a doctor, it never gets any easier to hear.

To lose people.

To fail them.

* * *

The killer manages to elude a building full of Scotland Yard's finest, but the real Don José doesn't. He is dead: throat slit and the body unceremoniously dumped behind the theater, stripped of his costume and clasping a single rose on his hand. Rumours claim the Phantom to be behind these murders.

John thinks back on the raven, and cannot help but to embrace them.

But in show business, life goes on and the week isn't even out before a new play is chosen and a new singer makes her debut. Her name is Irene Adler, a beautiful soprano who transferred from the Imperial Opera of Warsaw. When John, curious, and with all the subtleness he can muster, asks the prima donna about this monumental change, all he gets is a lusty smile and a: _I owe somebody a favour, Doctor_.

This time, after last the previous fiasco, all actors are kept under constant surveillance and all props are stored a locked. Officers from Scotland Yard offer to scout the premises during opening night.

This time, nothing goes wrong and they celebrate the success of the new play, _The Pirates of Penzance_ with a grand ball. It should be wrong, a month ago two people were brutally murdered, the Phantom has made more appearances than ever before, John being present during most of them for it to be coincidence. Still, when December grips the land, Baker Street Opera is ablaze with life once more. The patrons seek to erase all traces of darkness left behind and host a masquerade.

* * *

A ball, for which no expenses are spared. Strings of gold and velvet hang from the ceiling and proceed to coil themselves around the rails of the adjacent double-stair set, entwining one with the other before resuming their course. Various tangle even further, into complex bows made of stars and colour. While, from the ceiling, perfectly round bulbs hang, creating the illusion of a starry night inside the reception. Their pure white light washes on the decor, catching glimpses of gold and resting on the walls and floor, forming delightful patterns. Yet, the truly sublime center of this arrangement is the majestic and immense fir placed in between the double staircase. Golden garlands hug its every corner, sometimes crossing paths with crimson ones and engaging in a similar tango as that of its relatives in the rails. Smaller bulbs are too placed in the tree, making it glow. At the top, the most intricate angel John has ever seen, frock the colour if innocence and all seeing eyes, lost in a sea of sun, keeps vigil with a serene smile.

John, clad in borrowed garments, _Don Giovanni's_, face half-hidden by a pure white mask, watches the festivities from afar. He nurses a flute of champagne while watching couples twirl and sway to the orchestra– because, yes, Brooke did hire one, letting his musicians enjoy the night's merriment. He stands near the railing of the stairs, back facing the door that leads to the theater, slightly resting on it, as he tries to spot his sister.

He succeeds in finding her, she and Clara are deeply engrossed in what he guesses is a rather comic conversation, just in font of one of the various double doors scattered across the room. Clara giggles loudly and disappears, with Harry in tow, through the threshold. Well that's that then. His sister is more charming than him.

He sighs, but quickly stiffens as a soothing warm presence presses up against him, keeping him in place. There is a hand on his shoulder, another grips him by the wrist, two fingers placed on his pulse-point, and snug breath filters through his left ear, mildly tousling his hair. To his credit he does not even budge, or yelp, when the hand on his shoulder moves to the front, drawing circular patterns, applying the slightest amount of pressure.

"Don't move, Doctor" the voice is deep and commanding, so much so that his old army instincts stiffen him in place. John still cannot see behind him, but in his peripheral vision, he manages to catch a glimpse of a head coming to rest on his wounded shoulder. "I have a proposition for you."

This is a rather confusing situation. There is strange man pressed up against him in the middle of a masquerade, holding him in place with the barest of touches. If his pulse just a tad above normal, it is entirely due to this bizarre scene. Or so he tells himself.

"Well then, carry on," his voice remains neutral. This is just weird.

"I would deem it a mutual and beneficial arrangement if you help me catch the killer."

Well that has got his attention, and makes him realize that the man has been steadily guiding him towards the shadows, through the door and inside the theater. A now rather _empty_ room. "That's it? You want me to possibly risk my life for you? I don't even know your name. We've just met. For all I know you're plotting my murder."

"Doctor, you have managed to peak my curiosity, don't let your moronic reasoning ruin the magic," a _don't be an idiot_ is hidden there somewhere, John can vouch for it. "And we are more acquainted than you think. In fact, we have met several times, though we did rather get rough, others were just flee–"

"You're the Phantom!" John hisses. Great, an actual killer is holding him in place… What? No. The man is barely touching him; he could easily turn around a break his nose. Heck, he _should_. This time, he wouldn't even be able to escape. But strangely enough, he doesn't: the prospect of danger keeps him in place.

"Ah, yes, that odious sobriquet," and honest to God, John can practically see him grinning, as a deep chuckle escapes from his throat. "Oh, you think_ I'm_ the killer, don't you, Doctor."

"And aren't you?" it comes far higher than what he intended.

"Don't be an idiot," so there it was. "Doctor, if I were, I would not hesitate to kill you on spot. In the position you are in, I could easily break your neck and no one would ever find out in time. But since, as you can see, you're still intact, I must point out the rather obvious: I. Am. _Not_. You killer. Furthermore, you were previously presented with a golden opportunity to hand me to the Yard, which you failed to take. However, you remain unconvinced. Let me assure you that if I wanted you dead, you would already be. So, not a murderer, then. _Boring_. All too easy. I like challenges far better, and there is none as riveting as a murderer, one that, I dare point out, has been parading around my theater without getting caught. He disappears, even from me and I know this place inside and out. I have searched all over, but in my position, I am rather limited as to where I can go: there are thresholds, which I cannot cross. Hence why I am asking for your help."

"And why is that again?" John's reply is bitter, but hey, its only reasonable; after all, this is probably a rouse on the killer's part.

"Still not trusting me, I see. Very well, Doctor Watson, did enjoy invading Afghanistan?"

"What?" Now there was something strangely fascinating about this man, and how does he even know Afghanistan, the though is actually voiced out-loud. "How did–"

"– I know?" there is no way the reply could not have been more lethargic. "I don't. I observed. There have been two violent murders, and while everyone else is content to waste their time on this ball, you're not. You did dress up, but were most likely forced to, as you failed to engage with anyone at this party. No, you're standing far away from the festivities, in a strategic spot where you can see everyone and almost everything, keeping vigil to see if the murderer dares to show. Very noble, but stupid: you left your back completely unguarded. But this action speaks of diligence and training, you're used to protect, why it is even in your nature. You have a high moral compass and are brave. How do I know? You blindly rushed after the suspect on your first day at the Opera, no second thoughts. That day you showed an extensive knowledge on hand-to-hand combat and a high tolerance to pain. Well, I did best you, but it was through cheating: you were in my way and there was a dangerous man on the loose. Don't interrupt. Brave and skilled, plus the haircut and your stance: these qualities pinpoint to a military background. In the few occasions we crossed paths, some during which you had your sleeves rolled-up, I managed to notice that you sport a tan: not above the wrists, nor below the neckline. You have been abroad but not on a holiday: military then. But were discharged. You sometimes stiffen a limp, and carry around a concealed blade in your cane, with which you are more than proficient. I should inform you that your limp is completely stress-induced. However the pain on your shoulder isn't–"

"What makes you say that?" John can't help but to sound like a star struck girl, the man was on fire. He even ignores the fact that this man claims to have beaten him.

"You've been constantly massaging your left shoulder during the course of the evening," his voice carries a _stop interrupting me _one. "Sometimes rolling it in order to relieve some pressure, hinting at a war wound. Which is why I'm doing the favour of relaxing your muscles, can't have you stiffen up," ah, so that is what he is doing then… Wait. Was that innuendo? "So your cane, wound and complete and utter disregard for danger, topped with a more than competent medical background, all indicate to a military career in Afghanistan where you were an army-doctor. Simple, really."

"Uh-huh," and the moment he stops nodding like a toddler who has just been told that he could have candy for breakfast will be most welcome. "The doctor bit I presume is obvious, but the rest, it… It was brilliant! Amazing, really. But I still won't help you."

"Oh please, Doctor," incredible, the bloody, brilliant, madman scoffs. As in, this is really funny, but _please_. "You have let me keep you away for most of the evening, while separating you from any possible witnesses. In all this time, you could have easily socked me and gotten the Yard, since you are so sure that I am the man they are looking for. Or you could be dead… since neither of these events took place, my request remains. When are you going to stop pretending you won't help me?"

Bloody brilliant, again.

"I– well, if you put it like… I… yes."

"Excellent, then do not let me keep you any longer, and do tell your sister to exert caution when courting that dancer, most people are drunk now. Blind, but they won't forever be and such acts are mostly frowned upon."

John does not even bother asking for any further explanation. This bloke is a genius so he, and quite dumbly, nods. "How do I find you then?"

"You don't. I'll find _you_," and with that, the man, who towers over John, releases him (and his shoulder does feel better. He should thank the stranger, but that would be a tad not good), gives three steps backwards and after a court nod, disappears in a silver cloud smoke.

John goes back to the main salon. Really impressed and somewhat giddy.

What was wrong with him?

That bloke had gotten everything right and it was amazing.

_Oh, right_. That. He still should have decked him.

* * *

For all of his observations, the masked stranger did get something wrong: there was a witness to their brief disappearance.

Black eyes glint maliciously.

_Oh darling, this is going to be _so_ much fun. _


End file.
